


wishing well to all us sinners

by bruised_fruit



Series: headcanon compliant [23]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Reverse Chronology, mentioned death/grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19295320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bruised_fruit/pseuds/bruised_fruit
Summary: “Do you feel ordinary?” Davenport asks.“Not always, the way you talk to me,” she tells him, and she allows him another kiss.





	wishing well to all us sinners

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost, title from regina spektor’s “human of the year.”
> 
> i borrowed forehead bumps as a gnomish sign of affection from the wonderful @DragonWrites

Davenport watches her drink, then takes the glass from her, putting it to the side. She’s very quiet tonight.

“I still haven’t done anything for you,” she says finally. She lets him wrap his arms around her, lets him press his face to her skin.

“You know you have, angel.”  

\--

“Yes,” Lucretia whispers, and so he kisses her, in the dark of their bedroom, in the smallness and safety of the home they share, in the warmth of the bed.

He’s reminded of her power, of what she’s accomplished. And who she is, that the two of them are being lauded right now.  

“Do you feel ordinary?” he asks.

“Not always, the way you talk to me,” she tells him, and she allows him another kiss.

It is the 30th anniversary. There’s no need to talk about that.

He finds her hand under the blankets, by her hip. Her skin is colder than it used to be, dry and so soft, except those familiar calluses. She grips him back, gentle.

Somehow, it’s been 30 years. But it feels different from the 100, or his 42 that came before. (The two and ten fit in there somewhere, and what do they matter?)

They made it. They _made_ it.

His dearest friend, and he has her by his side now, and they’re happy now, and that’s all that matters. She is so very special. She is his, and he is hers, and it still means so much, still means everything…

“Would you like some water?” he asks, and she squeezes his hand a little harder for a moment--a little too hard, like she’s afraid he’ll pull away--and she tenses up, too, he can feel it.

But the moment passes. “That would be nice, Andrew. Thank you.”

\--

She cries in the bath. She cries often, but he’s learned it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. He places the washcloth aside and kisses her forehead, wrapping his arms around her, letting his shirt get wet.

“Come in?” Her voice is so quiet, so unsteady. As if she’s afraid he’d say no.

He sheds his clothes and settles carefully into the water with her. Hugs her again, just holds her. The water chills, too soon, it feels like.  

“Let’s get you dried off,” he says. “Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart.”

“I wanna do something for you tonight,” she says. Her hands are broad and safe on his back. Her heartbeat echoes in his skull.

“You always take such good care of me.” She scoffs. “Let yourself rest. Let me…” And he trails off, and he stands, helping her out of the tub, helping her into her robe.

He asks, he always asks permission, and she allows him to kiss her stomach, and she lays her hands over his head, whispering things just for the two of them, just for this one moment.

\--

He goes down on her on their couch, taking his time more than usual, and she cries at his mouth on her soft clit, the way he kisses her like he worships her, the noise he makes as he licks the wetness from her head.

There’s no need for disbelief, no room for doubt, if there ever was.

\--

“They feel like home, I think.” She doesn’t mention anything else, though she’d thanked him quietly, after they’d left.

“You’re right,” he says, and she rests a hand on his shoulder. She’s not in the kind of mood for demanding things, yet the contact seems like a question, discreet and unassuming.

Or he’s reading into it.

\--

They make dinner for what’s left of the crew. Everyone gets there early, the twins and Barry bringing desserts, Merle with jars of canned vegetables and pickles for future meals.

It is decidedly nice, though tiring, for the both of them. Lucretia doesn’t eat enough.

And there are raspberries on the cake.

“Oh, my favorite,” Davenport says warmly.

“We thought so,” Lup says.

He grins. “Right up there with blackberries.”

He spears one on his fork, and notices Lucretia watching, her face blank. “Honey?”

She stands, excusing herself in a soft, low voice.

They don’t look at him, exactly, but he clears his throat and says unnecessarily, “decade stuff,” and gets up too, finding her just in the hallway, just staring up at the ceiling.

Finally, she speaks, and the sound of her voice scrapes at the inside of his chest. “Was it the taste?” she asks. “Or the static?”

The memory is rather clear, somehow. His stomach sinks.

“I didn’t dislike them, and I could tolerate the static,” he tells her. She prefers honesty. “But the way you looked at me--”

“Really?” Her voice cracks.

“It’s all good, now. The fruit, that expression you make, it’s all good, Lucy.”

She’s upset, though.

“You spit them out. You looked _scared.”_

“I’m not scared now,” he says, voice soft. “What made you remember? You’ve seen me eat them before.”

She doesn’t say anything. He watches her grow tenser and tenser and tenser.

He puts his hands on her hips, looks to her--maybe it’s wrong, but he knows what he’s looking for--and rests his head against her stomach. They’re quiet. She doesn’t cry.

“We should go back in,” she says finally. “They must think we’re crazy.”

“We can ask her not to comment on it?”

“We should just go back in, baby--"

“Lucretia,” he says quietly. She looks at him, her eyes wide.

Her face crumples, briefly.

“Lucretia,” he says again, and she curls over him.

They stand there for a moment, then she says, “It just came up. It’s a little thing. It’s not--I’d rather not keep making it all about me…”

“That’s not at all what you’re doing, Lucy,” he says, angling his head up. She kisses his forehead.

“I look at you and sometimes just-- just see everything I did to you. And everything bad that’s ever happened to you, and that those liches made me believe had happened, that I feared could happen for _good,_ and because of my doing. It’s much better now, but…” Lucretia’s grip on him tightens as she struggles to straighten up. “Can we go back in, Drew?”

He holds her hand. He nods.

“Tea’s on,” Taako tells them when they enter the room again. “I put out some cookies, too.” There are a couple greenish macarons at Lucretia’s spot.

“Thanks,” Davenport tells him. “Wait, did Barry leave?”

“Dishes,” Merle says around a mouthful of cake.

“Oh, that’s kind of him,” Lucretia says awkwardly. She’s still standing in the doorway.

Davenport takes her hand and guides her back to her seat.

Taako pours them tea and takes a seat, taking a cookie off of Lucretia’s plate.

“Remember when we used to do this on the ship?” he asks her quietly.

Lucretia takes a bite of one, and Davenport watches her face. “I do, Taako. I always appreciated it. Maybe not enough.”

Lup swoops in. “He was bitching all afternoon about finding the perfect quality pistachios--”

“Can you _not,_ Lulu?!” Taako shrieks, and Lucretia giggles.

Davenport allows himself a smile.

\--

“It’s gonna be weird without him,” she says. A part of her dreads family dinners, especially with Magnus gone.

“It is,” Davenport agrees, his voice heavy as he chops carrots. “But,” he continues, trying to make his tone more casual, “he wouldn’t have wanted you to be alone today.”

“You’re right.”

She watches him go to the sink and scrub the potatoes. It’s been a while since they’ve seen the crew, all together. There’s some frustration, some trepidation, some aching feeling of perpetual loneliness that has nothing to do with agedness and smallness and weakness, they both know it.

And so Lucretia stands. “What can I help with, Drew?”

She is waiting for him to dismiss the offer, maybe. But he pauses, turning to face her. “I can’t reach our roasting pan, actually,” he says, and there’s a smile on his face.

\--

They are only recognized once, but it is respectful, it is calm and more than manageable. And the butcher is nice.

Davenport had known that Lucretia wouldn’t want to be alone, that she’d need to come along. She insists on carrying the meat, and she laughs when he pokes fun at her for giving up only a few steps out of the shop.

She presses a careful kiss to his forehead, bumping him, too, before pulling back and straightening up with effort.

His heart swells, and she smiles at him, and he could bathe endlessly in this feeling. With the parcel in his arms, he can’t touch her, but that’s okay.

He carries it the rest of the way home.

\--

“I’m nervous about going into town,” she tells him.

“Today might be a bad day for it,” he says quietly.

She reaches over to play with his ear, casual. The action, from anyone else, might be invasive and demeaning in the worst way, but from her, he welcomes it.

“Do you want to stay here, honey?” There’s a strain to his voice. “Just a short trip to the butcher’s, I think,” he adds, because he knows her answer, and because her fingers are more intentional, now, and this might be a test of wills more than anything.

He takes in air oddly, transparently, but it doesn’t seem to phase her, how needy he’s been since restarting T. She teases him, and he’s more lovestruck and desperate than ever. And it's always been pretty constant, anyway. When she tugs at him, he raises himself up, kissing her slowly, carefully, before clearing the table.

\--

He makes scrambled eggs for brunch, and she butters their toast, cuts a pear for the two of them to split, pours their coffee. She stands over him while he gets ready to plate the eggs, and he stops, giving her a look.

“Sit down, Lucy,” he says, amused, and she’s mock-meek about it.

\--

She takes his hands with a smile when he helps her up. He wonders if she’s ready for today, or if she’s acting brave and unbothered for him. There’s a bit of irony to the thought, and he knows that.

She leans on him a bit more heavily than usual this morning, it seems.

\--

“Okay, we’ve gotta get up for sure now, Lucretia,” Davenport says into the silence.

She hums. Pulls him closer. She’s not nearly as strong now as she used to be, but the motion is just as overpoweringly _good_ as always. And like always, he feels it everywhere, blooming in his chest, nestling in his stomach, pulsing in his cunt, resonating in his head, and warming him at every point of contact between the two of them.

And she says, “I love you, Andrew.”

“I know, Luce--you’re laying it on kinda thick.” She laughs, the sound muffled, and he twists to give her a quick kiss, then sits up. “I love you too, sweetheart. I’ll go put the coffee on.”

\--

He does end up coming, grinding against his own hand with his other on her clit as she plays with his hair, pulling and cooing at him.

She’s preferred he touch her without her Alter Self as of late. And while she doesn’t orgasm the way that she used to, age and oestrogen complicating how her body used to work, he can tell that she feels good.

It’s pretty obvious, in this moment. Lucretia pants, her hips jerking gently. She sobs at his touch, or maybe at the words he whispers into her ear.

And when they’re done, she kisses him, lets him kiss her face. He’s sweaty and gross and his breath is bad, but she doesn’t mind at all.

“I’ll never get tired of that,” she breathes, referring to his noises, or his dumb faces, or loving him, and he flushes. She cuddles with him and gives him the aftercare he barely needs, kissing his neck and murmuring about loving him, telling him--reminding him--that he’s good, that she’ll always take care of him, that he deserves everything and more.

\--

“Maybe we should have breakfast,” she says.

“Get your hand off my cock, then,” he jokes, and she moves slowly, her hand going to his belly, instead. He misses the contact immediately, his hips pushing up against nothing, slight but noticeable.

His face heats up as she chuckles at it. “I was gonna get you off, baby,” she tells him, smiling, “but this is much better.”

\--

They sleep in today.

It’s late morning, but there’s no rush. Davenport and Lucretia kiss, and they settle into each other's arms, and that’s their morning.

That’s their day, really.


End file.
